Hollow
by AdenHolmes
Summary: POST-RBF one year,but John is still holding out hope. It's not till one horrifying event that strikes close to his heart sends him on a mission to find out what happened to Sherlock. Help always comes to those who seek it. R&R, Johnlock,& GL/OFC
1. The Note

**_Hollow_**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC show Sherlock nor do I own any rights to the original Sherlock Holmes Adventures by Doyle. Because if I did Johnlock would most certainly be a reality.**

**A/N: I'm hoping to update weekly if interest is good. This story has more thought put into it plot wise than most of my stories -I love writing fluff. On that note there are a few warnings; This story will contain mild sexual references(gay and straight), references to violence and gore, reference to drug use, JOHNLOCK(!), and Lestrade/OC**

**Review and let me know what you think! I cherish reviews :)**

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><p>Rain patterned lightly on the windows of the sitting room of the small Brixton flat as John watched the droplets fall a solemn look on his face. He was idly aware of the soft pops and cracks emitting from the rather petite fireplace every so often. There was a piece of notebook paper, light blue in colour with red horizontal lines, clutched tightly in his fist. When he'd first noticed it he had wanted to rip it up, once he had read it he wanted to shred the damned thing, but couldn't bring himself to do it. Actually John could hardly coax his body into moving from the floor to his arm chair. To anyone it would seem he had snapped. He'd finally lost it, but John Watson was stronger than that. He was a man made of steel though, he was also a man who had allowed his heart to be melted into a puddle for a man named Sherlock Holmes and for the kin of said man to piece him back together, but it seemed even she had left now and John was alone. The tears had been welling up in his crystal blue eyes for quite some time when there was a sharp knock on the door. As much as John wanted to get up and answer the door he was sure he already knew who it was and if he was right he didn't know if he'd be able to handle it. The look of grief on his own face would have been enough to break a heart and he knew answering the door to tell Detective Inspector Lestrade the news would be like looking into a mirror. She had been Greg Lestrade's world in the same way Sherlock had been his and she had been there for John when Sherlock died. Now without her to fill the gaps and glue him back together when he broke John already felt he was drowning. Just the thought of having to break the news was making him sick. Then there was another knock at the door. It was, on the inside, painted a fine shade of red -something she had insisted on- in a glossy paint that mimicked the glossy look of the door to her own room. John had thought it silly, tacky even, at first, but after having lived with Sherlock he couldn't complain about her simple quirks and had let her paint all the doors in the flat with the same brand of glossy paint. He remembered the paint covered trousers she had been wearing when she did it that had hinted she had done the task at many places before and remembered wondering why she wanted the glossy paint though he'd never asked. A strangled sob wracked his body as a tear finally broke the barrier and rolled down his cheek.<p>

"John, are you in there?"

He had been right it was Lestrade who was probably there wondering why she'd never shown for their date. John knew. He wished he didn't but he knew and it couldn't be helped. In fact he'd known the second he walked into the flat. It had been subtle a small feeling, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled to stand on end, and he knew something was certainly wrong. At first he had tried to ignore it, but the feeling just grew the longer he sat in the kitchen eating his dinner. He had been grateful she had made some food for him before she went out with Greg for dinner.

"John if you don't answer this door I'm going to kick it down."

John bit the inside of his cheek as he bit back the urge to let out another sob; he would wager it'd come out quite loudly and frighten Lestrade even more. He got to his feet and shakily took the first step toward the door only to find it strangely easy the lack of resistance in his limbs disconcerting. A tad shakily he wrapped his fingers around the door handle and twisted it open to see the lightly tanned face, worried eyes, and salt and pepper hair of DI Greg Lestrade staring back at him.

"John, what's wrong?" he asked sounding more than a little bit afraid to hear what John had to say.

_One year prior…_

Shaking all over, the thin limbs were like leaves in a mid-autumn breeze, except they seemed to have no chance for rest even between the harsh gusts of wind flooding the London streets. Normally she'd be passed over as just another junkie, even by the kind DI Lestrade, but something was different that night because Sherlock Holmes stopped his cab. Sherlock climbed out of the cab and jogged the few metres back to where he'd seen her sitting on the ground at the edge of an alley way watching the cars pass by with a mesmerized look on her sallow skinned face.

The military doctor watched as his friend ran, having poked his head out of the cab, wondering what he was doing. John hadn't even been able to see the slim form of the girl from the cab window and for a moment was sure his friend was either speaking to a wall or the ground –though he hoped it was neither.

Sherlock kneeled down in front of the girl. Her hair was a shadow of the once brilliantly striking shade of red that had been dulled considerably by drug use, the naturally fair skin was unnaturally pallid and sallow, and her empty storm grey eyes stared at him with no sense of thought. The woman before him was obviously torn and tattered within an inch of her life by the drugs. Being that it was Sherlock Holmes who had stopped to take a better look at her one would assume a harsh or sarcastic and entirely abrasive comment, but he said nothing. It took the ginger haired junkie a moment to register his presence though when she had done so she jumped in surprise. Obviously she wasn't expecting anyone to be speaking to her let alone coming so close to her. For a moment it looked like she wanted to say something to him though she seemed to be at a loss for words or was simply too drugged up to form them. Sherlock would have placed his money on the latter.

"Stella," he murmured.

The tone in which he was speaking to the woman was the softest and most gentle tone he was capable of mustering up and he usually saved it for situations such as this.

"Who are you?" she asked.

There was a moment where Sherlock looked like he was almost hurt, but it was swept away quickly before she could even have had a chance of registering the change. She was high, he reasoned, no reason for him to be insulted by her failure to recognize him.

He frowned. Sherlock got to his feet and offered her his hand.

"Take my hand S. We need to talk and to do that you're going to be sober," he said.

She looked up at him as if he were some form of mutated donkey or something of the sort and furrowed her brow. In a fraction of a second three things flashed through Stella's eyes that warned Sherlock of what she was going to do next. So when she took his hand to let him pull her to her feet he was ready the moment she let go and took off down the alley way. Stella though she was frighteningly slim and had a fragile physique –which she obviously had disregarded- was quite an expedient runner and possessed proficient agility –for someone on drugs anyway. It took Sherlock nearly twelve blocks to catch her.

When he finally did get a hold of her it was just by a hair. He had pushed off the ground with an extra lunge of force in an effort to wrap his arms around her waist and pull her to the ground with him, but he'd only managed to lodge his hand in the crock of her elbow causing her to fall on top of him instead of next to him as planned. Her breath was coming in heavy gasps as she tried to draw in enough air to drag her shaking body to its feet and make another attempt to run. It was no use, by the time she had her breath back Sherlock's arms were wrapped carefully around the petite waist and had slung her over his shoulder.

"I never did like chasing you," he grumbled.

_Present…_

John had been considerably impressed with Greg's ability to deal with the situation _objectively_. It wasn't until after the on duty officers cleared out of –what had been- John and Stella's flat that Greg Lestrade broke. He looked at John for a moment more with his stoic police officer's mask –he heard the door close signaling the exit of the last officer- before drawing in a long shaky breath of the emotion heavy air surrounding them, and right there his knees hit the floor and the brave detective began to cry.

For a moment John was frozen in awe of what had just happened. He blinked several times wondering if it was a trick of his eyes and that he was simply in too much shock to process, but even as he blinked it away the strong and brave DI Lestrade was still on his knees weep over the spot his fiancé's body had been less than an hour before. Instantly John began to feel as if he was intruding upon a private moment and started to back into the hall and toward the sitting room. He knew that pain. All too well John could see the broken heart lying there on the ground with his tears that was the pain he had experienced when Sherlock...even after a year and with Stella's support he couldn't think of Sherlock being dead, but now he'd lost them both. His lover and his closest friend gone.

He felt hollow.

_Two years prior..._

John sat in the idle cab for what he would later estimate as nearly five minutes before he realized Sherlock had taken off again. He sighed, pulled the door shut, and asked the cabbie to take him to Baker Street. Sherlock would turn up eventually.

It was almost an hour later when the door to flat 221B was haphazardly thrown open and peculiarly enough the first pair of feet through the thresh hold we're not on the ground nor were they Sherlock's. John stared.

"Is there something you need to tell me?" John asked cautiously, his eyes trained on the limo body of the girl Sherlock had just shifted from his shoulder to his arms.

The look on Sherlock's face was the usual mask of detachment, but John -having lived with Sherlock for a few months by then- could almost detect the worry though it was masked by anger. He was about to press onto more questions when Sherlock spoke.

"Please text Mycroft and tell him I've found his escapee," Sherlock said in a monotonous tone.

The whole situation was curious and John found himself feeling just about as much interest in the unconscious woman as he did jealousy, though he didn't quite grasp why having Sherlock's attention taken from him was upsetting. John arched his eyebrow at Sherlock, but pulled his phone out and texted Mycroft what Sherlock had said word for word. He hadn't even reached to put his phone back in his pocket when it went off.

_**On my way**_

_**M**_

John made a face, still feeling exceptionally confused, and looked up at Sherlock. The twig like body of the consulting detective was perched rather precariously on the arm of the couch where he'd lain the woman down. Blue eyes flicked between the two and a vague sense of familiarity swept through him as he took in her angular features, but he didn't think he'd seen her before.

"Who is she?" John asked.

Sherlock's lips twitched slightly like he was about to make a snide comment on how John ought to have been able to deduce who she was, but he didn't. Instead a soft contented smile touched his lips and he looked up.

"This is my baby sister."

John would later find out how she detested being referred to as the 'baby'.

_Present…_

John had initially not known what to do seeing as this hadn't been the outcome he had been anticipating at all. In fact he had thought that Lestrade would be the one comforting him and he'd be on the floor sobbing his eyes out, but no there they were on the couch, Lestrade curled into the fetal position, and John with his arm around his shoulders in a meek comforting fashion.

"Greg, are you okay?" he asked softly squeezing Lestrade's shoulder.

It wasn't the most brilliant question to ask after all with his fiancé having just died, but John wasn't sure what else he was supposed to do.

"She- we- my fiancé- _my Stella-_," he stuttered in a strangled and grief ridden tone.

"I know, Greg, believe me I know," John muttered remorsefully.

Lestrade's deep brown eyes snapped up to meet John's liquid crystal blues and for a moment it looked as if he was considering making a snide remark back at him. He didn't though instead he paused before he pulled away from John and gave a weak nod.

"You think she thought of me John…you know…when she did it?"

John's breath caught in his throat. He didn't know how to answer that and he certainly couldn't just ignore or pass the question off.

"She loved you more than her own life," John said reaching out to touch Lestrade's shoulder again.

Lestrade shrank away from the touch, retreating further toward the other end of the sofa, and nodded his head slowly as if he understood completely now John had said it.

"Obviously so, but still not enough," he whispered –more to himself than to John.

The young look John had grown accustomed to seeing in Lestrade when he was around Stella was gone. It seemed to have gone out like a candle and the gust of air extinguishing the flame had been her death. John shifted uncomfortably. He wanted to stop thinking about Stella, but he couldn't get her out of his mind. As he moved he heard the faint crinkle of paper in his pocket and remembered the note, the note that he had meant to give to DI Dimmock, Stella's note. Against what was likely his better judgment John reached into his pocket and withdrew the light blue sheet of notebook paper with its faded red lines. He held it out to Lestrade. It had been addressed to both of them so it would have been wrong to not let Greg read it. That was all John told himself as Lestrade slowly took the partially crumpled and tear stained paper from his hand.

_My Dearest Greg and Closest Friend John,_

_I always told myself I'd never leave a note if I was to commit suicide but I find myself here writing anyway. I always thought suicide was the coward's way out, and I still do but, the difference is now I'm one of them. It's peculiar really, I'd never pictured myself being here, never thought I'd sink so low. I did drugs for years before I came across Greg-thanks to you and Sherlock-, who made it his personal mission to help me get clean –bless you my love- but even then I didn't ever want to kill myself. It's funny how things change. For me it all changed so quickly too. No, at first it was all slow, subtle, until it happened and everything kicked up into a storm. I'd changed the game and apparently that wasn't supposed to happen. I don't know what to do without him now though. I'm lost without Sherlock. Most people didn't understand him, save the few brave souls who dared to get to know him, but Sherlock was my brother and my best friend. He's dead John...I know we both thought it was a hoax and he'd be back but...it's been a year and he's dead. If you have it in your hearts not to hate me for this please remember I love you both. John I ask you to watch over him, watch over Greg for me, make sure he's happy don't let me ruin his life. I want him happy. I want you both happy._

_With Love,_

_Stella Lark Holmes-Lestrade_

Greg stared at the light blue sheet of paper for a moment and considered burning it.

"If she really loved me she would have stayed. I was here for her any time day or night. All I look forward to when I wake up in the morning is seeing her face. She knew we were here for her John…I don't understand," he muttered in a raspy tone that signaled the threat of tears forming in the dark eyes again.

"I wish I knew," John muttered.

He couldn't quite meet Lestrade's eyes though. He couldn't believe this was happening. It was Sherlock all over again and he couldn't accept it. There had to be something bigger going on. The Holmes's were simply too brilliant too be taken over by depression to the point where they'd commit suicide. It was there right in front of his face. He was sure of it. They'd have to have left him a sign, some kind of clue to what was going on. Stella wouldn't leave them without hope she had more care for emotions than Sherlock did, but John didn't care voice his thoughts to Lestrade as the two men sat there on the sofa in the sitting room of what now felt like an empty flat.


	2. The Service and the Ariticle

**_The Service and the Article_**

**A/N: So this chapter is quite honestly a bit of me working through some of the plot, which I have completely clear, it's just the order of scenes and what not I'm unsure of. I'd love to know what you all think should come next and what you want to see more of. I'm thinking of this one becoming more of a POST-Reichenbach -only- story and then going back to write the prequel which would include how everyone got together and such so basically everything pre-reichenbach. There will defiantly be more insight into Sherlock and John's relationship in the coming chapters as well as some light into Lestrade and Stella's. It depends on which pairing turns out more popular xD**

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><p><em>Two years prior…<em>

John was amazed. He blinked still processing. A sister? It wasn't enough of a shock to have found out Sherlock Holmes had an elder brother, but a younger sister as well. One he seemed to be on decent terms with? No this shouldn't have been a shock to John nor should the apparent fact that she was a drug addict but still he found himself taken aback.

"Your sister?"

Sherlock arched his eyebrow. "That's what I just said, is it not?"

"Just...you have a little sister? I shouldn't be surprised but I just never pictured it," John said.

Sherlock chuckled.

"No, I'd expect you wouldn't."

He was smiling as he tucked a lock of the thick ginger hair behind Stella's ear. The gesture was so loving, so full of emotion, he'd not thought Sherlock capable of such feelings, but he seemed very protective of the young girl –his sister- lying on the sofa.

"Is she going to be okay?" John asked.

Sherlock looked up at him.

"You're a medical man are you not?"

There was a shred of the Sherlock he knew. John smiled, giving Stella a once over, and he concluded she would be fine once the drug was flushed from her system but that would be the hard part. Detox was the hardest part for all addicts and many didn't even make it past that stage, but with Sherlock involved anything was possible. Then he remembered what Sherlock had him text Mycroft.

"What did you mean by escapee?" John inquired.

"Our little sister has been going through intensive rehab for the past three months -at a government facility- and a few days ago she just disappeared," came the sound of Mycroft Holmes voice followed by the click of the door closing.

"I was correct in assuming she had a relapse," Sherlock commented.

A frown touched Mycroft's lips which were pulled tightly in displeasure.

"Well I had hoped that would not be the case."

Sherlock snorted his disapproval.

"Well we've learned our lesson," said Sherlock. "And sleeping beauty can wake from her sleep now."

A grin passed over the full strawberry lips of Stella Holmes as she turned onto her side and regarded her brothers with mild amusement.

"Such party poppers," she said in a fake disappointed tone.

_Present…_

It was a day and a half before John was able to get in touch with Mycroft to inform him of Stella's passing and question him. He was desperate for answers. The brilliant members of the Holmes family simply seemed to be falling victim to this sudden depression and dropping dead like flies.

As frustrating as Mycroft could be John sincerely hoped he wasn't next. Over the time he had Sherlock had known each other -more so once they were together- John had grown used to mediating the relationship between the two elder Holmes. He still remembered being surprised that Stella didn't bother with it and left them to their own devices, but then again it was a useless effort -trying to make them get along.

John shifted a bit as he waited in the entrance hall of the Diogenes club. The no talking rule made sense, but still it gave the atmosphere an unnerving weight to him. He waited though as he wrung his hands together in thought.

"John?"

The speaker's voice was soft, so soft that we're it not entirely quiet, aside from the rhythmic breathing, occasional clink of cutlery, and shifting of papers he would have not heard it. Despite the softness and its smooth quality it still made John jump a little and spin to face the person. John raised a hand to cover his heart as he caught his breath and observed the clearly amused look on Mycroft's face.

He gestured for John to follow him back to his office. The door closed with a definite click that signaled to John he was allowed to speak, but he didn't know where to start. He wanted to know why Mycroft hadn't been in touch seeing as there was no way he didn't know what had happened to Stella. Despite John's firm belief the whole Holmes family had the emotional range of a teaspoon he felt certain Mycroft would be hurt by Stella's passing.

He paced the width of the room in front of Mycroft's desk as he debated how to begin the conversation. What if he genuinely didn't know yet? John bit the inside of his cheek, stopped to look up at Mycroft's cool and calm expression, shook his head, opened his mouth and then shut it again. Three more times he attempted to say something though all he ended up doing was closing his mouth and sighing dejectedly. Finally John gave up and look the seat across from the eldest Holmes.

"Good afternoon John," Mycroft said.

John stared at him blankly.

"Have you any idea?" he asked slowly.

His words were picked carefully. John knew he couldn't admit out loud that Stella was dead, even though he had seen, he just couldn't

"Of my sister?" Mycroft inquired arching an eyebrow. "Of course I am aware."

John's mouth slid open. His brain simply couldn't process how he could sit there so completely unaffected by the news. Surely he was upset.

"After Sherlock I was rather surprised she lasted this long," he added.

The word heartless came to mind, but John knew that wasn't really true.

"You...how can you sit there as if nothing's happened? Your sister! Your bloody baby sister's just taken her own life less than a week ago and you're talking about how you're surprised she lasted this long? If you knew something was wrong then why didn't you help her? At the least tell Greg or me to get her help!" John exclaimed.

Mycroft arched his eyebrow.

"My siblings are beyond the realm of normality what would you have done? They can't be helped," he said.

John stared at him feeling entirely appalled yet found nothing to say.

"I wanted to tell you the funeral will be at the end of the week. Greg and I would appreciate you be there," John snapped before turning on his heel and walking out.

_The Service…_

It was strange. John knew Stella would undoubtedly be buried right next to Sherlock, but seeing them lower the casket into the ground next to him was a surreal sight. Then there was Greg who stood next to John with a vacant expression on his face. The detective looked as if he had aged ten years in the past few days. He'd hardly spoken since the day they'd found her and it worried John, but he didn't want to push him before he was ready. What was certainly the most surprising part of the whole service was Mycroft, who was absent. He shouldn't have been surprised after their encounter at the Diogenes club, but It angered him. While he was disgusted with his absence at the funeral of his kid sister he understood Mycroft was an important man. Still there were no flowers from him or anything to suggest he even acknowledged the event's existence. John told himself it was just Mycroft's way of dealing.

The service ended and people began to filter out of the graveyard, but two remained - John Watson and Greg Lestrade.

"Where do you think she is?" Greg asked in a raspy whisper.

His eyes were glazed over with grief as he gazed at the shiny polished headstone. John looked at him feeling confused – a feeling he was growing accustomed to in regards to Greg Lestrade's feelings. He frowned lopsidedly and turned to Greg slowly reaching out to put his hand on the elder man's chest.

"Do you remember what you said to me when Sherlock –well you know-?" John asked.

There was a flicker of realization in his eyes that accompanied a thick flame of pain.

"It's gotta mean something," Greg whispered softly.

John nodded.

"And you think," he paused. "You think it all means something…that neither of them is really dead…?"

John nodded slowly watching Lestrade's expression carefully.

"John…Sherlock he may not have been a fake –we both know that-, but he's not god. You and dozens of other witnesses saw him jump, saw his bashed in head, and I saw the medical report," Greg uttered in a gentle tone –a tone he'd have used for a witness in shock. "And then Stella…"

John looked at him for a moment and considered pushing the subject, but Greg was tired –hell he was tired- and they were both hurting.

_In an undisclosed location…_

Stella sat idly opening her eyes to see the cars pass by the window. She had been counting the cars as well as organizing them mentally by make and model for the past hour. It was needless to say she was dreadfully bored.

"Sherlock," Stella called in a monotone shout.

There was no response she rolled her eyes. Begrudgingly she rolled off the sofa and onto the floor landing on her stomach and causing a soft thump to echo through the silent flat. A week and she was already dying of boredom she had no idea how he'd lived under such conditions for a year. She waited a moment more before calling out again.

This time however her efforts were not entirely wasted seeing as she could hear footsteps coming down the hall from the kitchen, but these were not Sherlock's footsteps.

"Is it entirely imperative for you to yell across my flat?" came the pitiful attempt of the thin blonde government worker –one she was sure Mycroft had hired to babysit Sherlock and her- trying to sound athorative.

Stella turned slowly to face her a slight smirk on her strawberry lips.

"Is it entirely necessary for you to obsessively flirt -poorly- with my brother even though it is no secret he is firmly committed to John?" she asked in a sickly sweet voice. "It's quite sad really, you know, seeing as he can hardly remember your name."

The blonde stuttered as she attempted to grasp some sort of reply to the sharp comment. It was clear she wanted to make a comment about the fact John thought Sherlock was dead and therefore they had no relationship, but she didn't dare.

"Stella it is incredibly impolite for you to be speaking so harshly to someone who is so kindly catering to our needs while we are to be…_staying here_," came the raspy voice of Sherlock Holmes.

It was no secret to anyone involved that Sherlock was displeased with this arrangement. He had been smoking again in an attempt to relax himself.

"I'm so bored though Sherlock," she said in a faux whine.

"As am I but we have to wait to wait for Moriarty to think he's safe. Someone has to prove he's real, someone that's not you, me, or Mycroft," said Sherlock In a low and almost chastising tone.

"Lenora I'd appreciate if you'd leave us. I need to speak with my brother privately," Stella said cordially.

"It's Lucy," the blonde muttered as she walked away.

_Four months later…_

Lestrade paced the length of his office. On the wall –usually reserved for working out cases- were multiple newspaper clippings involving Sherlock, Stella, their deaths, an article on the _I believe in Sherlock_ graffiti, and any other events he felt relevant.

"It's gotta mean something!" Lestrade exclaimed, frustrated.

The words, _I believe in Sherlock_ stared back at Lestrade as if daring him to do something about it. There had been a time when these words haunted him in his sleep and plagued his every waking moment. Now they were back again, prompted by Stella's death, pasted all over the board in the Scotland Yard office, as if they were clues to a proper case. He was supposed to be working on a proper case right now, he reminded himself. But he couldn't get this stupid thing out of his head. Just like last time. The time it almost cost you your job, he added to himself. First those damn mysterious interview in the papers about Stella, then Watson falling apart all over again, then this coming back. It was like the universe was throwing Sherlock Holmes in his face, saying _look, he's back_. But he's not back; Lestrade told himself desperately, he's dead. So what the bloody hell does this mean?

He glanced down at the paper with the interview in question spread across his desk.

_The body of Miss Stella Holmes, engaged to DI Lestrade of New Scotland Yard, was found this afternoon by her flat mate John Watson. It is apparent that Miss Holmes has committed suicide or so says the coroner's report, but we have information from an anonymous source that claims to have some insight into the sudden suicides of the apparently brilliant and otherwise happy Holmes siblings –both brother and sister having committed suicide within thirteen months of each other unprompted._

_This is what our source has to say:_

"_Neither Sherlock or Stella Holmes were ever known to be depressed at any point in their lives. Both were annoyingly brilliant geniuses who often lent a hand in the solving of a fair few of the more puzzling cases Scotland Yard had the misfortune of encountering. So why have their sudden deaths being been written off as suicides when they are so obviously not so?_

_I knew Sherlock and Stella quite well, possibly better even than Doctor Watson or DI Lestrade. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson were the most in love couple I ever met in my life and he would not have lied to John if his life depended on it. Stella Holmes devoted her life to Gregory Lestrade and he did the same for her. Neither of them would have left their partners willingly, but both would have done whatever they had to in order to protect them. Including jumping off a building or staging their own _suicide.

_What I'd like to know even more is what would the two be saying could they speak for themselves on the matter?_

_One thing is for certain. I believe in Sherlock Holmes. Moriarty is very real and very much a threat."_

The article wasn't long, but it infuriated him. He had no idea who had the guts to come out after all this time and claim to know them, to not only know them, but to try and say that Sherlock and Stella had not committed suicide. The whole business made his blood boil. John had told him when he had contacted the paper to find out their source they had refused to tell him.

"Damn it," he shouted crumpling up the paper and throwing it across the room.

He huffed and fell back into his chair and leaning his elbows onto his desk. The heels of his hands pressed against his eyes in an effort to keep away the headache that had been pounding away at his brain all day. It was all of the memories. They were driving him mad. It was as if all of a sudden he could remember every moment with Stella in frighteningly exquisite detail like he remembered for a reason, but there was no reason. The reason was to drive him mad to make him think something was going on that wasn't. She was dead he had told himself a thousand times and still it didn't seem to sink into his subconscious which was searching for a clue or an answer in the first time he'd met her, Lestrade hadn't thought much of her. It hadn't been anything special and he'd only spoken to her for a moment.

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><p><em>Sherlock was running to catch a cab with John at his heels. He had just explained a particularly complicated theory on why the murdered had chosen to position the body in a fashion that screamed murder versus attempting to make it look like an accident. Honestly he hadn't caught much of it other than that Sherlock was on to something and for that he was grateful.<em>

_Lestrade's hands were in his pocket as he stood on the front stoop of the old woman's home watching the cab drive away._

_"Brilliant isn't he?" came a soft and distinctly feminine Irish drawl. _

_It was obvious she was not native to Ireland, but did a good job of masking her English accent -he had wondered why- and Lestrade turned to look down at the ginger haired woman. She had come to the scene with Sherlock and John, but had stood off to the side and let them work it out on their own. Something about her came off as annoyingly self assured and the distinct air of a know it all._

_"Excuse me?"_

_"Sherlock," she said grinning up at him. "You've been working together for a fair few years, correct?"_

_"Five, who are you again?" he asked his brow furrowing._

_He was certain she was not supposed to be there, but then again neither were John or Sherlock._

_"Oh, where are my manners," she said her laugh tinkling through the air as if she were laughing at some joke related to her comment. "I'm Stella, Stella Holmes."_

_Lestrade took her out stretched hand with caution. "DI Greg Lestrade."_

_She laughed again removing her hand from his fairly quickly. "I know exactly who you are detective."_

_"And you must be his...sister then?" Lestrade asked._

_"Brilliant deduction," she said in a slightly biting sarcastic tone much like Sherlock's before she began to walk away. "I'll be seeing you round, very soon, Detective."_


End file.
